


Consign me not to darkness

by rightfullymine



Series: Blue Skies [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Tyrion centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 18:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12371643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightfullymine/pseuds/rightfullymine
Summary: It's been a long day for the Hand of the Queen.





	Consign me not to darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically me indulging myself. I love Tyrion and I love politics.
> 
> It is set in the same future as my other GoT story, but there's no need to read that to understand this.

In the nightmare, he can never swallow down the taste of blood in his mouth.

Cersei stands by his side, hair long and shiny, like it was in their youth. She doesn’t look at him and does not crouch, though he can hear her voice, thin and scratching, as if she was whispering in his ear.

They are walking, slow but sure steps that resound inside the Sept of Baelor, tall and luminous all around them. The air is bright yet dusty, full of the ashes of future destruction.

He commands his feet to stop walking, like he’s done so many times to no avail, and this time too the nightmare does not listen to him, merely considers him a puppet, stringing him around as it pleases.

“Can you see them? You killed them all.” Her voice is ruthless, and though the line is always the same, the meaning of her words gets to him still and settles like a heavy weight in his heart.

Bodies hang from ropes cascading from the high ceiling. He wishes he could keep his head down, but the nightmare has other plans. As they walk along the walls, the blank faces take shape and he can’t help but stare at them, serene and purple in their deadly decomposition, spluttered with crusted blood from their wounds, eyes opened unnaturally. Mother, Father, Jeoffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, Shae… even though he can rationalise he didn’t kill them, at least not all of them, he knows his sister’s words to be true.

“You little murderous imp. You butchered your family.” Her face is contorted in a monstrous grimace, the purest hatred distorting her features to the point where, despite her unnatural youth, she looks ugly in her inhumanity. He used to be terrified she would do something to him, smash his head against the wall or shove a dagger in his side, when he started having the nightmare. Not anymore. He knows how the dream will end.

He’s learned to expect the sound of his heart pounding in his chest, and the trickle of cold sweat that makes its way down his back. They are approaching the end of the line of bodies.

“Look at the last face, Tyrion. Look at it.”

He does not know whose face will appear on the last wretched body. His dream self can never remember, and the horror grows anew in him, hot and acid like vomit to his mouth.

He takes the last step and raises his head against his better judgement.

Silver hair is tangled in a bloody mess around the face. Blank, violet eyes, shineless and void, stare ahead. A cut, deep and ugly, mars her plump lips. Violent bruises appear on her neck from the noose around it. Daenerys Stormborn hangs dead in the Sept of Baelor, next to his family.

His eyes fill with burning tears.

“Happy? You’ve killed her too.”

He comes to and sits bolt upright in his bed. Locks of his hair are drenched in sweat and plastered to his brow and neck. He pants a couple of times, feeling the breeze from the open window cooling his feverish flesh. He opens his eyes to get his bearings and in the darkness finds a pair of red eyes staring straight at him.

At first, he thinks he has not woken up and he’s trapped in the dream still. New fear grips his heart in a fist.

Then, the moonlight coming from the open window catches the object in such a way that he is able to make out wisps of white fur around those eyes and he realises Ghost has made his way to the Hand’s rooms.

“Damn you, boy. You scared the shit out of me,” he mutters, and closes his eyes for a moment, willing his heart rate to go down. The direwolf keeps looking at him, unfazed by his words. He pads closer to Tyrion’s side and stops a few feet from him.

Tyrion would not go as far as to say that he and the King’s gigantic direwolf are friends. He tolerates the beast’s presence most of the time and certainly values his contribution in battle but Ghost has never given him any indication that he would appreciate a scratch behind his ears or a pat on his thick fur, so Tyrion likes to keep his distance. And his limbs. Sometimes though, the wolf likes to silently follow him around, stealthy as a burglar, and it is not the first time Tyrion has woken up to find Ghost in his room, especially now that spring is bleeding into hot summer and Tyrion’s rooms are located in the northernmost part of the Red Keep.

Tyrion moves the sheets away from his body and gets up. He knows from experience that he won’t be able to fall back to sleep, the image of Daenerys’ disfigured face etched on the back of his eyelids. After pouring himself a cup of water from the nearby table – too early for wine even for him, he makes his way to the balcony. The sky is still pitch dark, no trace of the dawn yet. King’s Landing sleeps peacefully below him, or as peacefully as King’s Landing can manage, he corrects himself in his head.

He wonders if Ghost’s presence in his room is any indication that Jon Snow has already left the Keep. Along with a small group of his men, the King is meant to make his way to the harbour today to test out a new fleet of ships, recently made with an innovative technology specially for the Crown. They will sail out to sea, learn the ropes of the new vessels, and come back in the late afternoon. Tyrion is glad he wasn’t picked for this particular task, as he hates ships and sailing never agrees with his stomach. He has a thousand things to see to in the Keep, anyway. He ponders that the Small council meeting today will be a short affair, what with half its members accompanying the King on this ship business, and sighs loudly. He will probably have to postpone discussion on some matters to some other time. He makes a mental note to speak to the Queen about it.

After a last glance at the view of the city, he returns inside. A stack of papers as high as himself sits on his desk. If he can’t sleep he might as well get to work.

Images of corpses finally out of his mind, he sits down in his chair and grabs a handful of letters in his hands. His eyes catch the direwolf seal of House Stark on one of them and he smiles despite himself, a weird flutter of something inexplicable in his stomach. He picks the message from the mix and safely tucks it away in one of his desk drawers. He will read it tonight, he decides. Something to look forward to.

Then, he grabs the nearest missive he finds, breaks the seal and starts scrolling through the message.

It’s going to be a long day.

 

*

 

When Olesya, his maid, enters the room with his breakfast, he has already dressed himself in his usual work attire, the Hand’s pin gleaming proudly on the side of his chest, and gone through a surprisingly considerable amount of paperwork.

“Already at work, my Lord?” asks the maid. She is a kind, middle-aged woman who was taken on in the Keep’s staff when the King and Queen installed themselves in King’s Landing, after the War for the Dawn. She’s been seeing to his chambers ever since and he enjoys the small talk they make in the morning, when she fetches him breakfast.

“I’m afraid so, Olesya. The Realm waits for no man.” He gives her a smile, and she puts down a tray of food on his desk. There’s fruit there, and eggs boiled and fried, as well as a rasher of bacon, burnt to a crisp the way he loves it, and a jug of juice made with Dornish oranges that he knows have just arrived with yesterday’s shipment from the South.

“Thank you, my Lady,” he says, bowing his head in thanks and making Olesya blush. Tyrion enjoys his banter.

“I’m no Lady, my Lord,” she replies chuckling, and bows respectfully before making her way to the bed.

Tyrion picks a grape from the tray, pops it into his mouth. The rich juice floods his mouth and he closes his eyes for a moment, content to just enjoy the ripe taste of the fruit. He forgot what plentiful of food the Red keep used to have in times of peace. He’s suddenly inexplicably glad to be alive to taste these flavours again.

When he opens his eyes again, Olesya is bustling about in the room.

“How did Merryn’s first day go?” he remembers to ask.

Olesya turns around in surprise and for a moment she looks as if she cannot reconcile the words she’s just heard with the man she’s pretty sure just uttered them. Then her mouth distends into a smile as she replies, “He was a bit scared at the beginning, cried and moaned about it. But when I went to fetch him in the afternoon he didn’t wanna leave.” And she smiles at the memory.

“Oh, us boys can be pig-headed at times, you must forgive us. I’m glad he had a good time.”

Indeed, he is. Merryn is Olesya’s six-year-old son and he had his first day of school yesterday. Tyrion thinks there are very few things he’s ever been prouder of than the school reform that he and the Queen conceived and implemented in King’s Landing. It was tiring and hard work, setting up a place that could host all the city’s children, choosing capable maesters to act as teachers, and convincing the lords that it was important the people get even a basic level of education, learn the history and shape of their land, the sounds and letters of their own tongue. He remembers how passionate the Queen had been about it, how relentlessly she had worked toward this plan of theirs, even when their chances of success seemed bleak and the reform hopeless. He himself had refused to give up on such an important endeavour and together they had seen it through. Whenever he is overloaded with petty and insignificant work, necessary for the functioning of the Realm but still a pain in his ass, he likes to think of the children in the new school of King’s Landing, which Targaryen monarch they’re studying today, whether they’re learning about the plains that surround Casterly Rock. The thought makes the rest of it, the scheming and the politics and the fragile diplomacy, bearable.

He grabs a piece of bread from the tray and starts munching on it as he glances at the agenda for today. He is to meet  with the chief engineer that oversaw the renovation of the sewage system in the city, who will probably ask for the gold the Crown promised him. Tyrion makes a mental note to read the report on the new sewers before meeting the man.

He will also have the pleasure of conversing with Lady Mara, who in truth is no lady but the owner of one of King’s Landing’s brothels. The fool has proposed to send a permanent group of whores to the Red Keep, _to please the King and his Council_. He is actually looking forward to that conversation. He’s thought about relaying the proposal to the King and Queen just to see the looks on their faces, for he can’t decide if the King’s bewilderment would surpass the Queen’s wrath, but he reasons that, though he has no mercy for stupid people and thinks them deserving of the misfortunes that befall them for their stupidity, he has no desire to see people burnt to ashes by dragonfire. He will have to let this particular idiot go on about her life.

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. He looks around the room and realises that Olesya must have left his chambers while he was lost in thought.

He’s about to invite whoever is at his door in when the visitor opens the door and makes her way inside, anyway.

Of course.

Queen Daenerys walks slowly but purposefully inside. The light from the opposite window illuminates her in a way that makes her appear even more stunning than she is, if possible.

Tyrion finds himself musing once again on the fact that his Queen’s beauty has always left him unaffected. Of course, he can see she is beautiful, in a way that’s usually described as godly and unreal, and while he pities them he can understand why men in her presence are unable to keep their wits to themselves. But ever since he met her in Mereen he’s never found her beauty to stir unwanted feelings in him or to overwhelm his rational assessment of her. He thinks if anything, this has made him more fit to serve her.

The sight of her bruised neck and scarred lips flashes in his mind unbidden and he closes his eyes for a second to clear his head but can’t help the stab of dread that shakes his heart. _He will not think of his stupid dream._

“Morning, my Lord,” she greets him as she makes her way to his desk. She gives him a soft smile that belies the formality of her words.

Her hair is braided tightly and intricately behind her back but a couple of locks freely descend along her cheeks to her shoulders. She is wearing a silver necklace that hangs heavy on her neck, clasped in place by the heads of two silver dragons. Her pale pink dress, of a thin material but long-sleeved, hugs her breasts snugly but falls softly to the ground. Tyrion realises with a start that the cut of the dress is fashioned in such a way to hide her pregnancy.

The news is still fresh in his mind and he sometimes forgets. Not a fortnight ago did Jon Snow and the Queen knock on his door after dinner, to give him the news. He remembers the brightness of her eyes as she said the words and the look of adoration in the King’s face. He remembers less fondly the arrogant tear that slipped its way down his own cheek against his will. They told him that he was to keep the news to himself, as it was still early in the pregnancy and they wished to be cautious. He had congratulated them with few and shaky words, suddenly too overwhelmed with emotion, and while he could not help but avoid her gaze he had clutched her hands between his so tightly he had nearly burned himself at the prolonged contact with her skin. She’d given him a watery smile and squeezed his hands in return.

 “Good morning, your Grace,” he replies, standing up from his chair. “How are you this morning?”

She promptly ignores his question and fixes him with an accusing stare. “Rhaenyra and I waited for you to break our fast.” It’s not a question but Tyrion knows she expects an explanation. He enjoys breaking his fast with the royal family and lately he’s been doing it more often. They always get the freshest fruit in all the Realm and he finds time to never pass so swiftly as when he’s engrossed in the telling of some tale of swords and dragons and the crown princess hangs from his lips, staring at him with beautiful wide violet eyes.

“My apologies your Grace, I decided to get some work done instead.” He doesn’t tell her that he dreams of her corpse every week and that when he does he never willingly searches her company in the morning, for the sight of her, strong and healthy and beautiful beside him, fills him with horrendous guilt that sours his mood for the rest of the day. If she notices the purple rings around his eyes, she doesn’t mention them.

Daenerys doesn’t look much satisfied with his answer but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she clasps her hands in front of her stomach, unconsciously he suspects, and sits down in the padded chair in front of his desk.

“I was told you were looking for me last night,” she inquires, and again, it’s not strictly a question but the sentence demands an explanation on his part nonetheless. He wonders when exactly she picked up this speaking habit. He finds he doesn’t much care for it.

He went to hers and the King’s chambers last night as he wanted to speak with the Queen about what had happened that afternoon. He found Missandei instead and she informed him that the Queen and King had retired early that night. Which, in hindsight, he should have foreseen, seeing as the Queen had spent the entire day away from King’s Landing and her King.

It’s in moments like these that he appreciates his Queen immeasurably, he thinks, it’s always the little things. How she has been told he was looking for her the day prior and reached him herself this morning. He knows his sister would have never done something small and insignificant like that.

“Yes, I wanted to speak with you about yesterday afternoon,” he replies. At his words, she stiffens imperceptibly in the chair. He might have been too quick to bestow compliments.

“There is nothing to talk about,” she answers in a cold voice, hard as her resolution. Tyrion’s never let her stubbornness stop him, that’s why she chose him as her Hand, and he’s not going to start now.

“There is. And measures for us to take. What happened yesterday in the gardens cannot happen again,” he holds her gaze steadily, undeterred, “your Grace,” he adds as an afterthought. In case she’s not up already, better not wake the dragon.

Yesterday afternoon, the court hosted a small play date in the Royal Gardens. It was supposed to be the first in a series of events designed by the Small Council to bring more of the common people to the Red Keep, to show the place and the royals in a more normal, laid-back setting, a way to bridge the distance between the King and Queen and their subjects. Tyrion had also seen it as a way to introduce young Rhaenyra to other children, to teach her how to be among her peers. And the event had been going smoothly until a kid had playfully shoved the princess and she had fallen to the ground. In less than a second, the looming shadow of Drogon had fallen menacingly on the gardens, his wings moving furiously like wind in a maelstrom, scattering children and adults alike. Tyrion knows that if it wasn’t for Sandor Clegane, who had had the presence of mind to shove the unfortunate kid out of the way, she would be a pile of ashes now.

“If you intend to propose chaining them up, you can save your breath. I won’t have my children rotting away in some dark dungeon like rabid dogs.” Her anger is already morphing into fury, her violet eyes blazing with the hints of a fire so scorching it could burn the Red Keep itself to the ground.

He knows he shouldn’t stoke the flame. He should be understanding and speak reassuringly. He throws his own advice out of the window.

“So that we can serve roasted children at our dinner banquets from now on?” he regrets the words the second they leave his mouth.

The Queen doesn’t reply immediately, doesn’t even twitch a muscle. Her face is schooled in a rigid mask, pale and beautiful and deadly.

“That is not what I said.” Her words as heavy as lead. He knows she regrets the destruction her dragons brought to some of the lands they dwelled upon. He knows that when dealing with the magnificent beasts some casualties are to be expected. He knows she mourns those who died unwittingly in her dragons’ flames, the thought of them haunting her at night.

“I beg your pardon, your Grace. I didn’t mean what I said.” He bows his head in shame and his expression softens. He’s loath to stop talking though, knows he needs to press on if he has a chance to make her see his way. “I’d never put Drogon in chains, you know that, but he needs to be kept away when Rhaenyra plays in the gardens with other children. It’s too dangerous,” he pauses, takes time to read her face better.

Her fury has dwindled, the way the light of a candle goes out in an open window. Her eyes are still clouded though, and her hands stay firmly clasped around her stomach.

“I’ll have one of my seamstresses sew a dress for the girl as a present. You’ll invite her and her family to the castle and she will play with Rhaenyra again. I will apologise personally for the incident.” She is looking him straight in the eyes, her way of letting him know she will not be budged in her decision.

He nods his assent and brings the cup of orange juice to his mouth. The fact that she hasn’t proposed an alternative way to deal with her dragons when the city’s children are involved does not escape him. But he is no fool and keeps his mouth shut.

They lapse into a somewhat uncomfortable silence, one he wishes he could say they seldom fall into.

She turns her head to look out the window, her eyes automatically lifting to the sky, no doubt looking for her dragons. She abruptly turns her head towards him after a while and he expects a second onslaught, but when they come her words are tender, almost frightful.

“The dragons protect Rhaenyra when Jon or I are not around.” She purses her lips after that, as if blocking more words from escaping the safety of her mind. Tyrion observes her for a long moment, seeing the young mother instead of the queen, remembering the way she had looked, fierce and unbroken and unyielding, when some maester in the North had told them that her child, _their miracle child_ , had actually very few chances of being born.

For all his praised intelligence he can be horribly dense sometimes. If he could speak to her without the rigidity of formalities, if he could only grab her hands and shake her, put an arm around her shoulder, he’d call her by her name and tell her that no one will touch her daughter, that no paid killers are sent to assassinate her in her little bed like they were for her in the East, that Rhaenyra won’t be taken away from her as long as he can call himself her Hand.

Instead, he bites his tongue, feeling the weight of the pin on his chest like an entire building on his shoulders.

“The princess is safe, your Grace. The Queensguard follow her when you are away,” is what he says instead. The words are empty and meaningless, stating a fact he knows she’s aware of. 

She nods her head absentmindedly, as if she’s only half listening to his words. He can’t blame her. He hates feeling inadequate and hates himself for feeling inadequate. He curses Jon Snow for being away on a damn ship, hates that he knows Jon Snow would have the words to soothe her, however false they may be. He wishes this orange juice were Dornish wine.

A knock on the door sounds loudly in the new silence of the room. Olesya peeks her head around the door and announces a Lady Mara waiting for the Lord Hand in one of the rooms adjacent to the Throne Room.

The message sounds almost comical to his ears now, and he’d burst out laughing if he didn’t know that his Queen wouldn’t appreciate it one bit.

He is shaken out of his momentary stupor and gets to his feet. “Your Grace, I beg your pardon- “

She interrupts him quickly and stands herself. “There’s no need. Do you require my presence for this meeting?”

He smiles broadly, trying to hide his mirth at the prospect behind the façade of an amiable expression. “I believe I can manage this one by myself.”

She nods and makes her way out of the room. He’s left alone for a moment, long enough to contemplate the irony that is Tyrion Lannister about to turn down whores for a job.

Then he exits his chambers as well.

 

*

 

“Today’s meeting won’t last more than half an hour,” Tyrion says to the Queen as they walk side by side towards the Small Council room, two Dothraki guards trailing behind them a short distance away. He’s trying to reassure himself more than her, to be fair. Now that the day is slowly turning towards dusk his lack of sleep last night is starting to catch up to him and he’s been longing for a bed for a while now.

“You are underestimating our dear Lord Manderly’s ability to talk for hours on end,” the Queen replies, a quick smirk adorning her face, making her seem younger for a brief second.

Tyrion chuckles at that. Lord Manderly is the Master of Coin in their Small Council and though his skills in managing the Crown’s gold seem impeccable so far, he’s made himself infamous among the Queen’s advisors for being able to talk and talk and talk extensively, about trivial things, for hours. Most of the time they have a good laugh about it, behind the Lord’s back of course. Expect those times when Tyrion gets so bored and out of his mind that he starts coming up with possible names to replace the man.

When they enter the eastern courtyard on the way to the Throne Room, they spot two servants arguing over a cart by the colonnade. Their voices are hushed and the argument seems mild, but they are a strange sight here in the open courtyard nonetheless.

He shares a glance with the Queen and they continue walking, approaching the scene.

Everything happens in the span of three seconds.

One of the two servants suddenly moves out of the way, falling in the shadows of the Keep. The other shoves the cart, which starts careening towards them, and he comes at them with quick, calculated strides.

Tyrion catches the glint of a blade in his peripheral vision before the man is on the Queen. For a second, he can’t understand what is happening to them. They are at peace, this is wrong.

Then he does the only thing he can think of and shoves the Queen to the side, causing her to stumble and fall to the floor, her attacker tripping on her dress and falling on her. He hears the thud of a body falling to the ground and the deaf sound of fabric tearing. The cart crashes into him and sends him flying to the floor. He hits his chin on the ground and an excruciating pain shoots to his skull, making him wince and close his eyes.

He stumbles to his feet after a beat. The man is nowhere to be seen. The Dothraki guards are dead behind them, their throats slit brutally in cold blood. On the ground, Daenerys lies unconscious, her dress torn in places, a red rose blossoming on the side of her belly, just under her right breast. It grows quickly, the petals opening up and wilting, the rose becoming a sea and staining the pink of the gown to a violent red. The sight of the Queen’s blood on her body sends panicked shivers to his spine. He closes his eyes to erase all that red, sees her bruised neck behind his eyelids, opens his eyes again.

He is sick all over the floor.

When he is done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then falls to his knees next to her and cradles her head in his lap.

“Gods Daenerys, don’t do this.” A wrecked sob makes his way out of his throat. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he sees his own tears splashing on her cheeks.

He is hopeless for a second. How could this happen? If he were anyone else but what he was, if he wasn’t a fucking imp, he could have fought the man off, could have shielded her better, could have helped her somehow. His thoughts make him mad with rage and he starts shaking on the floor, the fucking useless dwarf that he is.

Just when it dawns on him that he must run for help, Grey Worm and a handful of Unsullied turn the corner running towards them. He’s never been more grateful to see the general.

Tyrion gets up and gestures to them. “The Queen is wounded,” he says to them, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. Grey Worm doesn’t make a sound, just stoops and picks the Queen up in his arms, his hands precise but gentle, not a movement miscalculated.

Of course, she needs to be carried, Tyrion thinks. He cannot even do that for the Realm, for _her_.

He realises belatedly that the Unsullied are looking at him, awaiting his orders. He needs to get it together. He scratches his face with his hands then looks at each of them.

“Grey Worm, take her to her chambers, and fetch Missandei. Then sweep the Red Keep and put the castle on lockdown, no one but the King is to go in or out.” Grey Worm gives a curt nod, then moves fast, disappearing around the corner.

“You,” he moves his gaze to the second soldier, “Get Grand Maester Tarly and take him to the Queen’s chambers at once.”

He gets to the third and commands, “Send a raven to the King, tell him the Queen has been attacked.” This one, too, leaves immediately.

And when it’s just him and the last guard, “Find the princess and take her to Lady Arya. Tell them to go to the dragons.” He knows Drogon and Rhaegal are her best chances if the castle is being attacked. Arya will recognise the order and will know something very wrong has happened.

He is a fool. A useless, good-at-nothing, gullible fool.

He swallows down the taste of blood in his mouth from last night’s dream.

 

*

 

His head feels like it’s going to explode.

There’s a dull pain throbbing in his chin and he hasn’t had a look in a mirror but he can feel a lump right where his face is swollen. He imagines he looks even more hideous than usual. Surely less hideous than he feels, though, he muses, and the thought makes him chuckle despite everything.

He’s sat in a plush armchair by the hearth of the room. He’s glad now they brought the Queen to one of the guest chambers and not her private rooms. There’s something about seeing her lying down on a bed, motionless and asleep, that makes him feel wrong, like he’s not supposed to see her like this and she’d be furious if she knew. He thinks being in her own and the King’s chambers would have been even more awkward.

He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. His limbs feel shaky and he’s sure if he were to stand up, his legs would give under him. He’s tired and hungry and alert, seemingly feeling a hundred different emotions all at once. Relief that she’s alive and nothing serious happened, that Maester Tarly confirmed the knife hit her skin only superficially and nowhere near where her babe is growing. Defeat, for he doesn’t even begin to comprehend how something like this could happen now, when they thought their rule was stable and they had finally stopped sleeping with one eye open. Fear, for he had thought that surviving the war against his sister was Daenerys’ final trial and he had forgotten that she is, still, only a woman. And that still, without her they’d be lost, he’d be lost. For being the second most powerful man of the Seven Kingdoms, he feels maddeningly powerless.

He hates himself for reviewing his memories of the War, his exhausted brain going back to when he’d seen his sister’s lifeless body, making sure she is dead, indeed, and not lurking from some remote corner of the Realm, sending false servants to assassinate the Dragon Queen. He loathes himself for being chained to her after all this time. Will he ever be free of his sister? The memory of her is vibrant in his mind, realer than the maid Olesya or the brothel keeper, fortified each time by his nightmares, and sometimes reality and dream blur to the point where he can breathe only after he’s checked her death in his memories.

Gods, he wishes he could stop seeing Daenerys’ body on the ground, the blood on her dress. Wishes she wasn’t their only hope, even after all this time.

When she’d woken up a while ago, he’d gone to her side in a heartbeat and stopped her frantic questions with hushed reassurances that they were _all_ fine, that she needed her sleep now, but she had struggled against the covers, wanting to go to Rhaenyra immediately, her eyes wide as saucers and shiny with fat, panicky tears. He’d stopped her right there and promised her that he would go check on the princess as soon as she fell back asleep and hadn’t let her rebut before he’d handed her a glass of water in which he’d poured some drops of milk of the poppy.

He’s not gone to the young girl, yet. He left the queen’s room for a couple of minutes to send ravens to the Wardens of the Realm, to ready the fleets and the armies. He suspects his reaction to be extreme but so be it. If he cannot physically fight the queen’s assailants, if his only asset is his strategic mind, he will make use of it. He wants the Realm to be ready. A Dothraki guard confirmed the princess was safe with Arya while he was making his way back to the Queen and Tyrion didn’t feel like leaving her alone for too long.

When he hears a commotion outside the room, he knows who’s there and braces himself against the chair. He thinks he hears Ser Davos’ voice, his accent made thicker by agitation.

Jon Snow opens the door with such force that it goes flying against the wall and the thud that resounds echoes through Tyrion’s skull and makes his vision go black. For a second their eyes meet across the room and the king’s gaze is so dark and haunted, his hair so wild and the air about him charged with such wrath that Tyrion fears he’s going to charge him and strike him dead. Then the moment passes, as fleetingly as it came, and the White Wolf is by the side of the bed in an instant, kneeling on the cold, hard floor with careless abandon.

He buries his head in Daenerys’ hair, burrowing his face in the space where her neck meets her shoulder, and inhales. The gesture is so animal-like, so intimate that Tyrion has to look away, his guilt boiling in his stomach like bile.

He knows they love each other, has known for a long time. But to be reminded in such a way, to see the weight of their love in the King’s face, the anguish that contorts his features, has him wishing they had never met each other, never had fallen in love as recklessly, as stupidly as they had. How easy it would have been for them all, how straight-forward and calculated things could have been.

He shakes his head to clear his mind of useless thinking. They love each other and nothing will change that. And as much as it complicates every little thing, their love is their greatness.

He gets up from the chair, and starts making his way to the door. He wants to leave them alone, feels like a noisy intruder. The King won’t have any use of him anyway, having been made aware of the Queen’s health beforehand as Tyrion made sure to send an Unsullied to meet him at the Red Keep’s gates to give him news of Daenerys, before the King could storm the castle with his dragon and wolf.

“Gods, Tyrion,” he hears the sound of the King’s voice and a second later realises Jon Snow is talking to him. He stops in his tracks and turns around.

“How could this happen?” asks the King, and if Tyrion thought he felt helpless, he will have to reconsider his assessment on the sheer agony that oozes out of his words.

Tyrion closes his eyes for a second. He could give him the report Grey Worm gave him earlier, that the castle is secured and no further threats have been identified; that Greyjoy’s fleet is hoisting their sails as they speak, and the North has been alerted. Instead, he doesn’t give an answer, for he knows the King wasn’t asking a question. He bows his head in defeat, he does not know how this could happen.

Jon Snow is not looking at him, still kneeling by the bed, a hand on the queen’s barely there bump and his gaze on the bloodied dress that Missandei took off her when they brought her here and that’s now lying discarded on the other side of the bed. Damn it, he should have told someone to get rid of it-

“Where’s Rhaenyra?” Jon demands, and this time he lifts his eyes to Tyrion and fixes him with an intense stare that is Stark through and through.

“With Arya and the dragons,” is the Hand’s simple reply. At his words, the king looks relieved, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. His gaze softens imperceptibly but Tyrion notices nonetheless, the years at the couple’s side having taught him a great deal in their gestures and touches. He knows this particular one is meant in thanks.

“I want her here.” The order comes as no surprise really, Tyrion already sent someone to fetch the princess and the king’s sister.

“I’ll send someone to bring them,” he replies nonetheless, for he knows to address an order when he’s given one.

The King nods and bows his head down, until his forehead is resting gently on the Queen’s chest.

The sight makes Tyrion suddenly want to cry. He wants to drop to his knees on the hard floor and confess his dreams, lay his mind bear for his King to judge and condemn, tell him harshly that he sees his wife’s corpse in his nightmares, and that today he couldn’t even pick her up and carry her to her rooms.

The King would surely pass the sentence and swing the sword.

Instead, he turns back to the door and clears his throat. Right when he reaches the brass handle with his hand, Jon Snow’s voice stops him once again.

“Thank you, Tyrion,” his whisper is gruff with unshed tears.

He doesn’t turn around this time, afraid to see gratitude in his king’s eyes almost more than he was afraid earlier today.

“I did the only thing that I could do.”

He bites his tongue the second the words leave his mouth, petrified the King will catch on the self-loathing in his voice.

“Even so, I-“

The King doesn’t continue, his words choked in his throat, his eyes haunted and dark as night.

“I know,” replies Tyrion. And he does. The King and the Hand understand each other well.

He thinks how wary he was at the beginning at the idea of serving a king he had not chosen, how annoyed he was with his King’s broody nature and reserved attitude.

Now, Tyrion knows, they speak the same language, they believe in the same things, work towards the same goal. He hopes he will one day be able to tell Jon Snow what an honour it has been to serve him, to serve his family.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of sheets rustling. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Jon Snow has forgotten all about the Hand, his attention all captured by the woman waking up in the bed.

“Jon…” Tyrion hears her say, and her voice is gentler that he’s ever heard it.

He leaves the room quickly after that. They need their privacy, and he has work to do.

 

*

 

When Lord Varys enters his chambers, Tyrion is just finishing up the last bites of the delicious venison stew that was brought to his room a while ago. He feels like he has been awake for three days straight, but he has to admit the meal is gradually making him feel slightly better, clearing his mind and warming his limbs. It didn’t hurt that the stew came with a generous glass of Dornish red.

The sun set quite some time ago, but the flaming torches are enough to illuminate the balcony of his room, and he loves feeling the ocean breeze on his face while he eats and thinks.

“Good evening, my Lord,” is Varys’ greeting as he makes his way to the balcony. Tyrion gives him half a nod in return.

“Heard you’ve had quite a day.”

“Oh, you know me, I slay foes in my sleep.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He watches the amused smirk on Varys’ face.

“The maid Olesya is saying she saw you with her own eyes kill the attacker with your longsword. I bet there’ll be new songs about the Hero of the Red Keep this time tomorrow.”

Tyrion laughs at this. Sweet Olesya, he makes a note to give her an extra compliment next time he sees her. “What can I say, I have the best admirers.”

Varys walks the remaining steps to the table where Tyrion is eating, and plops down in the chair next to him.

“How is the Queen?”

“She is recovering but she is fine. Tarly said her fall caused her to hit her head, but the dagger missed its target. She should be up in a couple of days.”

“You saved her life.”

“I merely gave her a shove to the side.”

“You saved her life. And her babe’s.”

Varys stares at him and his gaze never flinches. Tyrion knows there is no point in contradicting him, his friend would only insist more. He diverts his gaze instead, and looks out to the sea.

“Do we have another war on our hands, Varys?” he asks, and he realises the worry has been eating at him since this afternoon, unknown in the recesses of his mind. The Realm cannot handle more bloodshed so soon. They cannot face new shadows when they’re still fighting the ghosts of their past.

“Not if we nip whatever this is in the bud,” replies Varys. “And we will. There is no good to be found in wallowing in your self-pity, blaming yourself for all the things you could have done but didn’t, my Lord Hand. The Mother of Dragons is our queen, the White Wolf is the protector of this great Realm. Their Hand is the most brilliant politician the Kingdoms have seen in a long time. I, for one, feel pretty confident about our chances. I urge you to remember this when you struggle to sleep at night.”

Tyrion takes a sip of wine. He’s not surprised to know Varys is aware he has trouble sleeping. He’d expect nothing less from the Master of Whisperers. He also knows his words are true. They will win this fight like they did all the others. They will do the impossible, if necessary.

“What news do you have?” he asks with renewed strength. He feels reinvigorated with the sudden desire to squash this thing right now.

Varys looks pleased, like the cat that got the mouse, and Tyrion would be annoyed if his mood weren’t improving by the second.

“The attacker is being held in the dungeons of the Keep. Dothraki guards are keeping watch but the King ordered them not to lay a hand on him. He wants to be the one to swing the sword.”

Of course, he does, Tyrion thinks. He’d expect nothing less from Ned Stark’s son.

Varys keeps speaking, “He is indeed a servant. Apparently, he was hired by someone to do the deed in exchange for a very generous amount of gold for his wife and sick son. My birds tell me his family was aware but they don’t know who hired him. They seem like decent people.”

Tyrion scratches his bird in defeat, fighting hard against his instinct to feel guilty, against the thought that sometimes lingers in his mind, that for all the good they’ve done since Daenerys was crowned, they are still failing a lot of people, poor and desperate people, trapped in circumstances stronger and crueller than them. He clears his mind quickly though. If he dwells on that, he is lost.

“I am working on finding the instigator. There are whispers about Tarth. But I’ll know more in a couple of days.” When Varys finishes, he pours himself a glass of wine and drinks for a long moment.

“Very well,” Tyrion replies and tries not to show how impressed he is that the Spider managed to gather all of this in a couple of hours, if not less. He is glad Varys is on their side.

“And I assume our greatest ally has been made aware of recent events?” Varys asks, and he has a glint in his eyes that Tyrion does not like one bit.

His only chance is to play it cool, “And who would that be?”

“Acting the fool doesn’t suit you, my Lord,” teases Varys while getting up and moving towards the inside of the room, “I hope Lady Stark won’t have to march south with her armies in our aid. I am not sure you share my hope.”

“Goodnight, Varys,” he calls to the man, ending Varys’ teasing effectively. He does not feel like entertaining his friend’s banter, and besides, there’s not much to say in his own defence. He is sure the Spider is aware of the many ravens that have recently been flying from King’s Landing to Winterfell and back again.

He hears the click of his door signalling his friend’s exit and goes to pick up his glass to finish his wine. The lights of the city are gradually being put out, plunging the city in gradual but inevitable darkness. The breeze from the Narrow Sea has picked up intensity and he shivers in the cold.

He moves back inside his room and sits by his desk once again. He closes his eyes with a sigh and is relieved when the first thing he pictures is not Daenerys’ blood or her bruised neck. Sometimes, being an imp and the Hand of the Queen is too hard of a job. Sometimes, he thinks he’d be much more satisfied at Casterly Rock, living the boring life of a Lord. When such thoughts trouble his mind, he thinks about the children of King’s Landing, who’ll be waking in a couple of hours to go to school.

His work is not perfect, and all he can do is count all the mistakes of today and try to fail better tomorrow.

Tomorrow he’ll visit the Queen and see with his own eyes that she is alive and well, hotly demanding to be let out of her chambers.

But tonight, he’ll find peace where he can. He opens the drawer and retrieves the message from this morning. He breaks the seal and recognises Sansa’s handwriting as if it were his own. His heart stutters in his chest, in the usual manner it does whenever he thinks of the Lady of Winterfell.

He closes his eyes, smiles, and begins reading.

_My dear Lord Hand…_


End file.
